But They Loved
by ColdInMyProfessions
Summary: On the twenty-eighth of October, 1777, John Laurens turns twenty-three years old. The trees are particularly beautiful at this time of year, but his gaze is focused instead on another young aide-de-camp. HISTORICAL LAMS. THIS IS SHITE.


**This is a one-shot written for John Laurens, on his 263rd birthday, October the twenty eighth.**

 **'No sooner met but they looked, no sooner looked but they loved, no sooner loved but they sighed, no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason.'**

 _ **But they loved**_

 _ **Or alternatively, John and Alexander are pretentious little shits who can't go five minutes without referencing Shakespeare or the classics.**_

 _ **Or alternatively, the author can't write historical fiction.**_

 _ **Or alternatively, word documents need to shut up about the 'passive voice'.**_

They are in Pennsylvania the day he turns twenty-three years old. It is a chilly, brisk Autumn and Whitpain is full of deciduous trees, their leaves fading from summer's youthful green to handsome shades of auburn and russet, carpeting the ground in their many, colourful layers.

They are still recovering from the defeat at Germantown, less than a month ago. Though, despite the slightly weakened moral, the majority of soldiers have not let this affect their good spirits. There is much to be thankful for, John will be damned if he lets the redcoats ruin this day, this brief period of tranquillity, for him.

It is clear now that France intends to send their aid, after the overwhelming American victory at Saratoga. The General Horatio Gates has, admittedly, done something right for once.

But Laurens wishes not to dwell on these matters any more than he already has to at headquarters. It is his birthday, he is newly twenty-three years old and the trees are particularly beautiful from where he is stood on the river bank. He will enjoy this brief calm, a period of rest rarely afforded to him. It is wartime, after all.

He sits down on a log that has collapsed on the dewy grass, overlooking the river. His hands itch for paper and pencil, or even ink, to sketch this scene. Alas, he never entertained the idea that he would be given enough time for such an activity.

So he sits instead, watching a large heron pound down the river, its wings beating steadily as a marching drum. He removes his hat, which has grown irksome to constantly wear, and closes his eyes.

His hair is not powdered today, for there was no time. It is tied back in its usual queue, clean but unbrushed, still a corn silk blond from summer's bleaching sun. He is not the only one who has let such formalities slip as of late, most of the other aides have not the luxury to pay attention to their hair in the midst of a war.

John thinks briefly of Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin, the American diplomats in France. He knows that they most likely spend more than a few hours on their hair in the mornings, attending lavish dinners and hedonistic balls in the evenings under the sly pretence of negotiation.

Likely, when the war is over, they will be celebrated as American heroes, the ones who will be given medals and legacies.

Or, alternatively, they are the ones who will hang first if their foes win, they will be martyrs for the Patriots and traitors to the British.

John thinks he would not mind either fate.

There is the faint crunching of dried leaves behind him, not too dissimilar to the sound of footsteps in snow. He opens his eyes and whips around, sure for a brief moment that it is a rogue British soldier, or one of the Queen's Rangers, out for Patriot blood.

It is not, of course. British lines are miles back.

Hamilton stands behind him, his arms full of dried leaves and his hat perched coquettishly on his head. His eyes are bright, watery with the sharp wind and his cheeks are flushed from the frigid air. He looks like some sort of devilish puck, his eyes sheepish and his mouth spread into a wide grin.

"Hamilton, what were your intentions with those leaves?"

He sighs and drops the dreaded things, shaking his head in mock disappointment. They flutter to the ground like crimson butterflies and land around his boots, adding to the thick layer already surrounding them.

"Must you deny me any and all fun, Laurens? It was merely a jest."

John laughs and tuts loudly, slapping his hand on the log, inviting Hamilton to join him.

"A jest that would leave me with leaves in my hair and dirt on my coat, do you endeavour to make me seem like some Hobgoblin?"

Hamilton laughs at his reference to Shakespeare and John thinks yes, he is more a puck than anyone he has ever seen, eyes bright with rebellious mischief.

"In hindsight, it was perhaps not the most intelligent notion to ever strike me."

Hamilton sits down next to him and they watch the river together. A squirrel scampers across the opposite bank and Hamilton grins, delighted. He watches avidly as its bushy tail disappears into the undergrowth and his smile does not fade even after it is no longer in sight.

"One would think you had never seen a squirrel before, Alexander."

Alexander shrugs and grins at John, pulling a dried leaf apart absently. His eyes, usually a violet-blue, are more a mother-of-pearl silver in the early morning light.

"The West Indies are not known for their abundance of woodland creatures, and New York has few such animals."

John nods and gazes out over the scene in front of them. In the foreground is the river, shimmering with golden morning light and incarnadine reflections from the surrounding trees.

Beyond that stretch miles of wood, trees of all heights and variants, some bear leaves that are lemon yellow, some that are muddy brown, and some bear none at all.

The river winds like silver rope down the valley and from this distance it could almost be a thin stretch of looking-glass, reflecting the sky and the swallows soaring above.

"It is beautiful, isn't it."

Alexander agrees instantly, but when John turns to watch him he realises that Hamilton's eyes are fixed on him, rather than the view beyond. He feels something akin to nervous excitement swell in his chest.

If John were asked to describe his relationship with the young Lieutenant Colonel, he would not know where to begin. They are good friends, that is certain, yet have only known each other for three or four months.

He and Hamilton have been drawn to each other, not only because they are the closest to each other in age than any other aides, but also because they share the same ideologies regarding freedoms and liberties, especially those of slaves and black people.

John would be lying to himself if he said he didn't want something more out of their friendship. He has resigned himself to his unnatural disposition, his inability to love women, but has no such evidence Hamilton is the same.

Though sometimes he fancies that he catches the man looking at him, his quill paused over the latest letter to Congress, yet Hamilton always looks away immediately thereafter and John has convinced himself that he is imagining these incidents.

But there are touches too sometimes. Hamilton's hands lingering on his own for just a moment too long when they pass quills or papers to each other, sometimes it is a bump against his hip in a wide hallway where there was room enough for them to walk unhindered.

Alexander is perpetually smiling at him too. Sometimes it is subconscious and wistful yet other times it is knowing, a smirk more than anything else.

But these things mean nothing, of course. He cannot allow himself to indulge in ludicrous whims and fancies when he is sure he must be the only man afflicted by this... _oddity_ in the whole of Pennsylvania.

But the way Alexander is looking at him, the way his cheeks are flushed and his lips are wind-bitten and rosy.

He cannot think this way.

John looks away and instead gazes back over the horizon, his heart pounding like the wings of the heron, now flown upstream.

They are silent for a while and John does not dare turn to look at Hamilton, fearing one more glance at the man next to him will undo him.

He hears, rather than sees, Hamilton reach into the pocket of his heavy coat and pull something out from deep inside the layers.

"John?"

He looks around and burning eye contact is made, their gazes are drawn to each other like magnets and John, for a long moment, does not realise Hamilton is holding something out to him.

It is a small package, wrapped in two layers. One of grease paper, the other of cloth.

"You mentioned some time ago that today was your birthday."

His expression is casual, light-hearted and insouciant. But John is sure he can detect something like sheepishness or self-consciousness there too. Hamilton is afraid he will rebuke him.

John stares at Alexander for a moment in disbelief, shocked that the man would remember his casual mention of this date when none of the other aides had. Not that he resents them for this, they are busy enough without wasting time on frivolities.

"Alexander... You should not have felt the need to."

He merely shakes his head and presses the gift into John's hand, folding his fingers over it gently. The brief contact of their skin, a shared sliver of warmth in the bitter weather, warms John better than any roaring fire or hot bath.

He opens it somewhat hesitantly, noting that it is warm from the heat of Alexander's body. He pulls aside the grease paper to uncover cake, a large slab spread with butter and traces of strawberry jam.

"Hamilton... How did you-"

Alexander grins and a strand of auburn hair falls into his face, he pushes it impatiently behind his ear and shrugs, his thin shoulders jumping quickly upwards.

"A young Sergeant boasted about having acquired some."

John gapes at Hamilton, a grin appearing unwarranted on his face.

"And you used your superior rank to persuade the cake from him?"

His tone is slightly dry, a touch disapproving. Yet, he cannot be angry at Hamilton, not when he had thought to get him something.

Alexander, however, looks affronted.

"Of course not, John. I traded him a set of laces and some coffee that only us aides are afforded."

John relaxes somewhat. He would have only been slightly put off if Hamilton had used his immense powers of persuasion in acquiring this, yet he knows The General would have been less than pleased if he had discovered.

"Alexander..." He breathes, staring down at the gift in his hands, "thank you."

He looks up at the man sat next to him. His defined nose, smattered with freckles. The Botticellian pink tinge to his high cheekbones, the way his hair exactly matches the deepest of the red leaves around them.

It his like he is some angel, sent down from above. Either that or a demon from below meant to tempt Laurens. Either one is plausible, Alexander is simultaneously a walking sin and a whispered prayer.

Then, Alexander is leaning forwards into him. Their noses touch and he feels the warmth radiating from the man's skin. He closes his eyes and feels Alexander move in the rest of the way until their lips meet. It is warm, it's is soft, it is gentle and-

-And, _oh_ , Lord forgive him, but this- _this_ cannot be a sin.

The first time John kisses Alexander, he forgets that he is going to hell for it. He dismisses his father's voice, echoing in the vast cathedral of his mind. He can only feel Alexander lips on his, the press of his tongue, the brush of his eyelashes.

He would not mind if the mouth of hell were to open up now and swallow him whole, for he has kissed Alexander Hamilton.

They remain like this for a while, intertwined with each other. It is deep yet gentle, passionate but not greedy. It is everything John hoped to feel with his wife but never did. It is near what he felt with Francis, back in Geneva during his school days.

But it is altogether new, a new sensation, a new man, a renaissance.

He kisses Hamilton harder and too late realises the man had not been expecting this sudden fervour. Hamilton falls backwards, John pulled with him to the ground. A muffled yelp pulls from Alexander's lips and they land among the leaves, sprawled awkwardly, almost painfully, in a tangle of limbs.

John, who has landed on top of Alexander, rolls off of him and stands hastily up, backing away. He is sure Alexander now regrets this, he must be horrified, disgusted, _disturbed._

Alexander sits up, half covered in leaves, and puts on his hat. His expression is somewhat bemused and he looks a little disoriented.

John curses himself for allowing what just transpired to come to pass. He should have moved away, he should have stopped himself, he should have-

Hamilton lets out a sharp laugh and reaches his hand out to John, his eyes are wrinkled with mirth.

"You won't help me up, John?"

John grins and steps forward, grasping Hamilton's forearm and pulling him to his feet. There is a small leaf trapped between his head and hat, so John reaches forward and pulls it away, letting it flutter to the ground.

"I apologize, I forgot myself."

Hamilton reaches his hand forward and cups John's cheek. He stands a fair few inches shorter than Laurens, something he would jest about, lest Hamilton not so self-conscious of his slight stature.

"I did not hurt you?"

Alexander shakes his head and removes his hand before brushing himself down of leaves.

Then, John is suddenly mortified, feeling a blush creep across his cheeks. There they were, kissing like love-sick teenagers, and he causes Hamilton to fall backwards. It is impossibly embarrassing. He groans into his hands, sure that Alexander can detect his embarrassment, sure he has noticed the pink on his cheeks.

"And therefore is love said to be a child, because in choice he is so oft' beguiled."

He looks up, surprised. Hamilton's grin is wide and his eyes are sparkling knowingly.

"As waggish boys in game themselves forswear, so the boy Love is perjured everywhere."

It is as though Alexander has read his mind, for he grins up at him with a lively, youthful smirk. They have both referenced Shakespeare too many times in less than twenty minutes.

"Not the most astute choice of quotes Alexander, unless of course this affair is in jest."

He is joking, of course. Nothing about this was a game to him.

Alexander, however, rushes to reassure him. His expression is eager and he does rather look like one of those 'waggish boys', his hat again perched at a jaunty angle upon his head.

"No, no- of course not, it was no game."

John laughs and pushes the tip of Hamilton's hat a few degrees further upwards so his face is less obscured.

"Has Harrison not yet told you to wear your hat properly?"

Hamilton shrugs again and straightens it slightly so that the emerald-green cockade, insignia of his aide status, is set straight again.

They sit back down on the log and John half wishes to kiss Alexander again. No, rather he wishes to kiss him again with _all_ of his being. Not merely half.

Instead, he takes the package of cake out his pocket and reopens it, staring down at the gift. He breaks off what he thinks is around half and holds it out to Alexander, grinning at his ambivalent expression.

"I could not, it is your birthday after all."

John shakes his head and does not withdraw his hand. When it becomes clear he is intransigent on this matter, Alexander sighs and takes the cake into his hand, brushing off the excess crumbs.

He breaks off a small piece of the food and puts it in his mouth with closed eyes, he is savouring the taste, clearly. John wonders when he last had anything sweet or baked like this.

He knows he has not since he joined the army, but that was merely two or three months ago. Hamilton has been here longer than he, and before that was struggling to get by in New York.

He breaks off a piece of his own and chews it slowly, relishing in the taste. He is a man who has lived of thin broths, stale bread, and coffee for the past few months. This is a welcome change from the usual flat or outright abhorrent flavours of his normal meals.

He watches the horizon, still vaguely pink from the dawn that lingers yet in the morning sky.

Then Hamilton is kissing him again. He has moved closer to him without his awareness and now he presses his lips to John's softly, reaching out a dexterous, nimble-fingered hand to hold the back of his head.

Strangely, the sweetness of jam and cake tastes better when it is on Alexander's lips than his own.

He wonders what he could have done to deserve this, as he winds his fingers into Hamilton's hair. What deeds did he do in a past life that led to this blessing now?

Thankfully, they do not fall this time. John braces one hand on the log they sit on and the other leaves Hamilton's hair to grasp his waist instead.

He feels the smooth silk of his green riband and holds tighter, sure that Hades is about to spring forth from the earth in his chariot and pull him downwards to Tartarus for his sins.

He pulls back at this thought, suddenly fearful. Perhaps this motion was more abrupt than he intended because Hamilton gazes at him, panting and hurt looking with swollen lips and a reproduced expression.

"John?"

He runs a hand through his queue and sighs.

"I am afraid, Alexander."

He suddenly looks apprehensive, biting his lip with his mouth ever so slightly open. Then he frowns and leans forward slightly so that his next words ghost upon John's face as breath.

"Of what?"

John laughs, maybe he is being ridiculous, maybe Hamilton will scorn him.

"I am afraid I will go to hell for this, and that I have condemned you to the same fate."

Alexander is momentarily surprised, his eyes widen infinitesimally. Then he grins again and laces his fingers with John's, sighing in a most theatrical manner.

"Well, I would not mind hell if we were together, Laurens."

He laughs at this philosophy, thinking about replying snarkily.

 _If it were hell Hamilton, we would not be allowed with each other._

Instead his nods and squeezes Hamilton's hand tighter.

"Indeed, I should think it would be quite bearable."


End file.
